


Asshole Shirt

by moonweaver



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unbeta'd, We Die Like Men, ugly ass tank tops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26060890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonweaver/pseuds/moonweaver
Summary: Tsukishima is riveted on the tank top, which looks like a piece of black fabric that’s been dragged through a thorny bush and back. The shoulder straps are thin and the underarms are low cut, so low cut that the holes swoop to Kuroo’s waist. He can see the swell of Kuroo’s pectorals. He can see the sheen of sweat all the way down his abs.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 11
Kudos: 184





	Asshole Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> I had a [very specific shirt](https://bit.ly/3b0JOsF) in mind while writing this. I call them asshole shirts and I absolutely hate them. I was thinking about Kuroo wearing one of these shirts. Then I wrote about Kuroo wearing one of these shirts. Now I'm wondering if I'm projecting...
> 
> ((This is the first time I've written explicit so have mercy on me))

Kuroo is wild and insouciant, all sharp flashing teeth and solid overwhelming presence: this, Tsukishima knows.

Kuroo’s hair echoes this by being an explosion on the best of days, and it shines as well through his appallingly terrible fashion sense: this, Tsukishima also knows.

Tsukishima comes home to their apartment, worn out from paleontology lectures and laboratory classes. All he wants to do is get some iced tea and drift into a half-doze on the couch to the sound of Kuroo seething obscenities at Mario Kart or softly strumming on that stupid guitar. Instead, when he opens the door he’s greeted by his boyfriend perched on the edge of the couch, dressed in a horrendous barely-there tank top, pumping a dumbbell as big as Tsukishima’s head. Sweaty and disgusting and hot.

“What are you doing,” he says flatly, hand tight around his backpack strap.

Kuroo looks up, brightening at the sight of him. “Hey, you’re finally back.”

Tsukishima is riveted on the tank top, which looks like a piece of black fabric that’s been dragged through a thorny bush and back. The shoulder straps are thin and the underarms are low cut, so low cut that the holes swoop to Kuroo’s waist. He can see the swell of Kuroo’s pectorals. He can see the sheen of sweat all the way down his abs.

“You look like an asshole,” Tsukishima says, because he does.

“Ouch,” Kuroo says. He puts down the weight and stands up, enveloping Tsukishima in a stifling hug, breath hot against his ear. “Missed you.”

Tsukishima instinctively puts his hands on Kuroo’s waist to push him away and regrets it immediately. The muscles there are hard and heated against his palms, the contrast of texture between cotton and skin somehow addicting to touch. Despite Kuroo’s grossness, Tsukishima finds himself remaining there, shifting the pads of his thumbs in tiny little circles. He can feel Kuroo’s grin curl against his neck.

“Did you miss me too, Tsukki?”

“It’s only been a day,” he says into Kuroo’s shoulder. 

“A long day.”

The stress of three lectures and one two-hour lab session being crammed into his head. Summer heat leeching his energy even before the sun had reached its peak in the sky. “It was a long day.”

Kuroo’s hand slips behind him, takes off the backpack and tosses it onto the table. Without it digging into his shoulder, Tsukishima can lean into him more comfortably, winding his arms around him. Tangling his hands into the stupidly low armholes of that stupidly flimsy tank top. It’s sticky, it’s uncomfortable, but as Kuroo’s fingers begin to probe up under his shirt, he finds he doesn’t mind.

“Do you really have to sit on the couch while you’re exercising?” Tsukishima says, shuddering a little as Kuroo massages his fingertips into the small of his back.

“It’s seen worse,” Kuroo says (unfairly reasonably) and tugs him a little bit closer. His fingers creep up higher and he nuzzles into the crook of Tsukishima’s neck, placing a gentle, dry kiss there. When Tsukishima doesn’t protest, the kisses change to open-mouthed ones, languid, hot, and wet, Kuroo taking his time to suck perfect red bruises all the way down to the edge of Tsukishima’s collarbone.

 _Oh_ , it feels good. The heat probably has something to do with why he’s standing there all pliable; it’s making him clammy and lightheaded and tilting his head further to the side to expose more, more of his neck. Kuroo’s abs shift under his fingers and Tsukishima’s breath stutters in his throat, coming out as a strangled sort of sigh.

Kuroo’s arms flex around him, fingernails pressing into his back. Hard, but just below the edge of pain; they’ve been clipped short. He sucks one last hickey just next to the hollow of Tsukishima’s throat, scraping teeth and lapping tongue, before trailing little pecks up Tsukishima’s jawline and right to his mouth.

Tsukishima’s lips are already parted, waiting to meet his, so when Kuroo kisses him their tongues immediately slide together. It's a constant push-pull sort of kiss, each of them giving and taking in a way that has a flush suffusing Tsukishima from head to toe, his blood singing in his veins. Kuroo's biceps are large and strong, the perfect handhold as arousal sweeps through Tsukishima, coiling low in his gut and making him weak at the knees.

He’s beginning to change his mind. He doesn’t want to curl up on the couch and doze.

He tilts his head further, changing the rhythm so it becomes relentless, messy, hungry. His heart is hammering a million miles an hour. Kuroo’s sharp teeth snags on his bottom lip and Tsukishima grunts into the kiss, his arms tightening and pulling their waists together so he can feel the throbbing hidden beneath Kuroo’s loud, multicoloured shorts--just as Kuroo can probably feel Tsukishima himself hardening inside his jeans. The sensation as they press together has fireworks going off behind his eyelids.

A loud ripping sound fills the air. They jolt apart, lips separating with an obscene _pop_ , and Tsukishima looks down in consternation at the torn fabric in his hand. Somehow he’s ripped the left armhole of Kuroo’s shirt right down through the hem.

Kuroo arches an eyebrow, all smug confidence despite his rapidly rising and falling chest. “Alright there, Tsukki?”

“It’s really hot,” Tsukishima says, panting.

“You’re really hot,” Kuroo says, dragging the back of his hand over his spit-wet mouth.

Suddenly he leans his head to the side, concern overtaking the cockiness on his face. He gently wipes a thumb across Tsukishima’s swollen lip and it comes away bloody; he looks apologetic. “Did I hurt you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Tsukishima says, licking at the wound. Kuroo’s eyes follow the movement, bright and intent.

The blood is salty and dark on his tongue.

“It’s a disgusting shirt, anyway. I did you a favour,” he continues, looking down at the ruined material. Its tattered edges brush against the sharp jut of Kuroo’s hipbone. He fits his hand there, digs his thumb in.

Kuroo jerks against him. “Tsukki,” he says roughly.

Tsukishima’s throat feels tight but he presses in harder, feeling the nail bite into Kuroo’s skin. There’ll be a mark there later. 

“ _Tsukki_ .” Kuroo’s voice is now a dangerous rumble that makes Tsukishima’s toes curl. _Don’t tempt the beast_ , his instincts clamour at him, but something more primal howls _COME GET ME_.

Kuroo’s hand locks around his wrist. It’s large and strong and squeezing, forcing him to release his grip—he glimpses that the white crescents are already turning crimson—and then Kuroo walks him backward, borderline shoving him, making Tsukishima stumble over his own feet until he hits the edge of the table.

“Get that off,” Kuroo orders, pulling his shirt up; Tsukishima raises his arms and helps Kuroo strip it off him, shivering as the air touches his bare, sweaty skin. Kuroo then does the same to his own top, except his arm gets caught and he pulls at it so forcefully there’s another tearing sound and the tank top has been reduced to a rag, which he promptly tosses aside.

“Good riddance,” Tsukishima says, greedily running his eyes all over Kuroo’s uncovered body. The broadness of his shoulders, the swell and dip of his chest, the concave lines of muscle disappearing into his shorts. There’s a fuzz of dark hair above the waistband that makes Tsukishima’s mouth go dry. He wants to do more than look, he _needs_ to taste and to touch, to inhale the musk of all that exposed tanned skin.

Kuroo shoves his way between Tsukishima’s legs, pushing him further back so Tsukishima’s half-sitting on the table, legs splayed out on either side of his boyfriend. He grabs Kuroo’s neck and pulls him down, kissing him harshly, relishing in the way Kuroo’s leg rubs right against his cock. It’s throbbing almost painfully against the coarse material of his jeans and he whines a little, rutting despite himself.

Hands are suddenly scrabbling at his waistband and the buttons of his jeans are being twisted open. “Off,” Kuroo says against his mouth, so Tsukishima tugs down the zipper and wriggles out of them. They bunch around his thighs, so Kuroo steps back to pull them off the rest of the way. They sail in the same direction as the tank top rag.

“Good riddance,” Kuroo echoes, crowding into his space again and settling his hands on Tsukishima’s legs as if he owns them. “Those jeans make your legs look fucking _awesome_ , but they are a _pain_ to get off.”

“So you think my legs don’t look good without them?” Tsukishima asks, sliding his palms down Kuroo’s torso, all the way down to cup his ass.

“You know exactly what I think,” Kuroo growls, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of Tsukishima’s thighs.

God, yeah, he does. Kuroo makes it no secret how much he loves Tsukishima’s legs, loves touching every inch of them, loves marring the sensitive inner skin with bites and bruises. Tsukishima kind of wants him to do that again, except right now his arms are filled with Kuroo and his breath is filled with Kuroo, Kuroo’s lips sweat-salty and slightly coppery from the tiny trickle of blood on Tsukishima’s mouth.

Kuroo’s ass fills his hands perfectly, the muscles there both toned and pliant beneath Tsukishima’s massaging fingers. Every squeeze coaxes out a smothered little grunt from between Kuroo’s lips; Tsukishima grins into the kiss, but then Kuroo puts his hand into Tsukishima’s underwear and the grin turns into a gasping “o” of surprise.

Because Kuroo’s fingers are long and hot, wrapping around him _perfectly_ , pulling him out so his flushed length is exposed to the air. He’s already slippery with precome, which his boyfriend takes advantage of and pumps him with fast, slick motions and Tsukishima is aching _so_ damn good, canting up into Kuroo’s fist as it slides from base to head and back down again. His vision has blurred with tears, his head thrown back as his fingers clutch tightly at Kuroo’s shoulders. 

Kuroo stops.

Tsukishima’s head falls back down so he can glare him in the eye. “What.”

Kuroo’s lips are red and shiny and swollen. Tsukishima watches them avidly as his boyfriend says, “Turn around.”

He knows where this is going. He kind of wants to be sucked off, but the glimmering intent in Kuroo’s eyes is...convincing. Tsukishima turns and braces his hands on the table’s edge.

“Bend over for me,” Kuroo whispers over his shoulder, licking the shell of his ear.

Tsukishima obeys.

He spreads his forearms out on the bench, not that the friction is very effective thanks to the clamminess of his skin. He feels his briefs being stripped from him before he can blink, leaving his ass on display. Kuroo gives it a good squeeze, making Tsukishima reflexively arch his back into the touch.

“How do I always forget how gorgeous you look like this?” Kuroo murmurs, running his hand up Tsukishima’s shoulder blade and swirling around to pinch a nipple.

“You have a shit memory,” Tsukishima says, his voice completely devoid of the intended insult.

“Allow me to refresh it?”

 _Smartass_ , Tsukishima’s about to retort, but Kuroo pries between Tsukishima’s asscheeks and very effectively distracts him. His finger plays around Tsukishima’s entrance, trails _right_ over it without going in. Tsukishima swears under his breath, pressing his forehead down against wood, glasses digging into his cheek.

“You’re such a _shit_ ,” he hisses, hips grinding against the edge of the table.

“You love it,” Kuroo says smugly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Where’s the—fuck. Wait a sec.” His presence suddenly vanishes as he disappears into the bedroom, where Tsukishima can hear him throwing open drawers and rummaging around, before he reemerges. There’s the tell-tale pop of a bottle cap and then Kuroo is between his legs again.

A little foil packet lands next to Tsukishima’s head. He squints at it before the shock of lube stroking against his hole makes him flinch--even though Kuroo had rubbed his hands to warm them, the sensation had still been unexpected.

“Sorry, Tsukki,” Kuroo murmurs, and slides a finger in.

 _Holy shit_ , is a fleeting thought that crosses Tsukishima’s mind before he’s bucking his hips back, taking in more of Kuroo’s finger even though Kuroo is _trying_ to be careful in that attentive way he has. Kuroo likes to take things slow, both to make sure Tsukishima is comfortable and also to absolutely torture him.

Sometimes, though, Tsukishima just wants a good, rough _fuck_ , so he shoves back again, the burn of it bringing tears to his eyes.

“Nuh uh,” Kuroo admonishes, pulling his finger out just before it can find Tsukishima’s prostate. Suddenly he wants to scream in frustration.

“What the fuck,” he instead bites out, twisting to glare daggers over his shoulder.

Kuroo traces the ring of muscle almost thoughtfully. “You’re still pretty tight, Tsukki,” he says, dipping in again up to his first knuckle. Tsukishima feels himself clench uselessly around the scant intrusion.

They’ve done stuff like this before, so Kuroo knows exactly what Tsukishima can handle. What he _wants_. 

“Asshole,” he mutters into the table.

“Filthy words from a pretty mouth,” Kuroo teases, snaking the rest of his finger in slowly, keeping a broad hand on the small of Tsukishima’s back to control his movements. Tsukishima can feel it inside him, the slender presence moving in and out of him, stretching him out lasciviously. He huffs impatiently into the table, glasses slipping to the end of his nose. Finally when Kuroo decides he likes how it feels he adds another finger, scissoring and then circling them around in tandem, and then he crooks his fingers right against Tsukishima’s prostate.

“ _A_ _h_ ,” Tsukishima hears himself whine. Without Kuroo there to support him he’d definitely have fallen to the ground.

“Yeah, just like that,” Kuroo breathes, more to himself than Tsukishima. His free hand reaches around to stroke Tsukishima's dripping cock and the blonde’s vision almost whites out. He shudders violently, his glasses clacking off onto the table.

“Fuck me, Kuroo,” he almost snarls.

“Magic word, darling,” Kuroo says, sugary sweet, playing with the bump of Tsukishima’s prostate like it’s a button.

He knocks his glasses away, his forehead hitting the tabletop. _Fuck you_. “... _Please_.”

“Okay, Tsukki,” Kuroo purrs. The withdrawal of his fingers leaves a hollow sensation where they’d been writhing; Tsukishima almost punches the table.

There’s the pop of the lube cap again. The condom packet vanishes from the table and Tsukishima hears the tearing sound of foil being mercilessly ripped open—he imagines Kuroo has torn it open with his teeth. A shiver rolls through his body. He can feel Kuroo spreading him open carefully, positioning himself.

And then Kuroo slides in.

A moan is immediately wrenched from his throat. Kuroo’s fingers are _no_ match for the feel of his cock. It’s thick and _throbbing_ , filling Tsukishima up just like he’s been craving, driving all the remaining languorousness out of his bones.

Kuroo stills there for a moment, seemingly as much for himself as for Tsukishima, if the muffled swearing above is anything to go by. Once Tsukishima taps the table, indicating he’s grown accustomed to the foreign weight settling inside him, Kuroo begins to move, firmly grasping his hips to keep him in place. It’s all Tsukishima can do to cling onto the table and keep himself upright.

The pace increases quickly, the drag of Kuroo’s cock within him sends electric shocks all over his body. He can feel the spittle from his open-mouth panting run down his chin—how disgusting, how fucking disgusting—then Kuroo hits that sweet spot inside him again and he almost howls. His fingers scrabble on the smooth tabletop desperately as Kuroo sets a rhythm that fills the air with obscenely wet slaps. He’s mumbling “ _fuck, Tsukki, yes, yes_ ,” and Tsukishima can almost see how Kuroo looks, tousled hair and red cheeks and gorgeous hazel eyes blown wide and dark and devouring. Suddenly just _hearing_ isn’t enough, just _imagining_ isn’t enough.

“Stop,” Tsukishima pants. “Wait.”

Kuroo halts immediately, pulling out. “Are you okay? Did I do something?”

“No, I just need— I don’t want to come all over where we eat,” Tsukishima says, turning around shakily and bracing himself against the edge of the table. His lower body was halfway to becoming an absolute wreck. _I want to see you._

“We eat that anyway,” Kuroo points out with a roguish smirk, but he’s already taking Tsukishima’s wrist and helping him to the couch before Tsukishima can say how gross he’s being. “This okay?”

His eyes are soft and attentive despite the hunger lurking in them, looking at Tsukishima with a tenderness Tsukishima almost feels he doesn’t deserve. He feels a rush of warmth in his chest that has only a bit to do with arousal but everything to do with desire. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Kuroo breathes.

Immediately Tsukishima finds himself on his back, breath knocked from lungs and limbs spread out. The hunger has been allowed to take over; Kuroo descends on him with a feral grin. He settles expertly above Tsukishima despite the narrowness of the couch, cock bobbing in the air. A bead of precome drips onto Tsukishima’s stomach; the blonde wipes it off with his fingers, brings the digits up to his mouth, sucks.

Kuroo’s eyes darken. “You were right.” He runs his hand up Tsukishima’s stomach and pinches at his nipple, rolls it between his thumb and finger. Tsukishima’s hips jerk. “Mm. This looks much better.”

“Would you just shut up and fuck me?” Tsukishima demands. Some small part of him is appalled at his crassness but the much larger animalistic part wants to be preyed upon, to be _filled_ , to be fucked so _hard_ he’ll be unable to think at all.

“If you insist, Tsukki,” Kuroo says with his irresistible feline smirk, and hikes Tsukishima’s leg up over his shoulder, opening him up for the world to see. He can feel Kuroo’s tip nudge against his entrance before he slides into Tsukishima in a single fluid motion that has Tsukishima’s eyes practically rolling into the back of his head.

“ _Oh my god,_ ” unfurls out of his chest from somewhere deep in his bones, “ _ffuuck, Kuroo, harder—_ ”

He _had_ been right, though. This is much better—just like this, he can look right into Kuroo’s eyes. He can see the furrowed concentration on Kuroo’s brow and the carmine flush spread across his cheeks; he can see just how the composure on Kuroo’s face crumbles with every thrust he makes deeper into Tsukishima’s ass. Kuroo winces slightly when Tsukishima drags his fingernails across his back, carving long lines of _MINE_ , but if anything it spurs him on to go faster, harder. Fuck, this angle is absolutely _everything_ —Tsukishima has never felt him so deeply before.

The next thrust has Tsukishima biting down hard on his lip, reopening his cut from before.

Kuroo growls and leans forward. He smatters teeth-sharp kisses across Tsukishima’s chest, desperately so because he can’t quite reach his lips. Tsukishima doesn’t mind that because it gives him something to grab onto: that black hair is the perfect length for him to pull as his nerve endings explode into starbursts. Kuroo’s free hand is again working between Tsukishima’s legs despite the awkward angle, swirling his thumb around the head of his cock and pumping him into a frenzy.

Tsukishima violently cants his hips upward, taking Kuroo in right up to the hilt. _COME GET ME_ , he shouts in how he tangles his fingers into Kuroo’s tornado of hair and yanks it, _COME GET ME_ , he screams in the thrust forward of his hips as Kuroo drives in, wrapping his legs around Kuroo and throwing his head head back in a choked, gasping cry. “ _Tetsurou_ ,” he moans, keening and long, “ _Tetsu, Tetsu, Tetsu_ —”

Kuroo leans down and swallows the sound of his own name, drinking the garbled desire straight from Tsukishima’s lungs. “ _Kei_ ,” he croons, the name dripping like dark honey off his lips.

Tsukishima’s mouth flies open, but he can’t even scream. He can’t do _anything_ as the orgasm racks through his body, Kuroo shaking above him as his own climax takes hold. For a single euphoric moment, Tsukishima stops thinking completely.

* * *

He regains his awareness of the world piece by piece. Kuroo’s breath is coming in uneven puffs against his neck. He’s slumped on top of him, all his solid muscle constraining Tsukishima on his back. At least he’s pulled out.

They’re a mess of tangled, naked limbs, sweat and fluids sticky between them. Tsukishima is utterly spent, just shy of dropping into blissed-out sleep. But, “We need to clean up,” he says, poking half-heartedly at Kuroo’s waist.

Kuroo nuzzles into his neck. “Five more minutes,” he yawns, tapping an arbitrary rhythm on Tsukishima’s chest.

The smell of sex lies heavy around them. It’ll seep into the couch if they just fall asleep like that, so he pokes a little more forcefully despite the heaviness of his eyelids. “C’mon, Kuroo.”

Kuroo props himself up on his forearm, looking down at him with the crooked little smile Tsukishima likes the most. It does funny things to his heart. Kuroo caresses his cheek, trails gentle fingers back into his hairline. Tsukishima’s eyes flutter half-closed at the touch.

Kuroo’s voice is warm when he says, “I love you, Kei.”

“Asshole,” Tsukishima says affectionately, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> ((screams/ ao3 keeps fking up my formatting))
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tsukichuus) and [tumblr](http://rincentric.tumblr.com) if it matters lol


End file.
